Chefchaouen: Suspension of Disbelief

On this post, photos are by photographer and musician Maeve Brayne

The first drop of tea splashes into the glass, spiralling down from a burnished teapot half a metre above. A neat flick of the wrist, and the pouring stops. The aroma of mint tea and incense fills the air: Morocco’s sweet, heady fragrance.

It’s a rainy morning in Chefchaouen, where the Rif Mountains exhale their frosty breath on to the valley below. Rivulets of water stream down the steep, cobbled streets of the cobalt-blue medina, still quiet except for a few mewling kittens splashing arounds in the deluge.

Nestled in the north of Morocco, the tertiary, mountainous landscapes encircling Chefchaouen are a far cry from the ochre Sahara in the South. Up here, daily rhythms are set by the Rif Mountains; the Atlas’ moodier younger sister. Unpredictable outbursts mean swollen raindrops that drench the fertile plains beneath the peaks. Yet it’s the temperamental weather that imbues the little town with its otherworldly charm.

A sorcerer has cast a spell on these labyrinthine streets, where the mist obscures vision. Enchanted, visitors take furtive footsteps through the enticing yet elusive passages leading to nowhere. Chefchaouen invites you into its blue-hued folds; getting lost has never been so dream- like. As I meander on my path, my mind wanders too. What lies behind the hobbit-sized doorways? Who lives in the heart of this town, surrounded by metres of ancient, painted blue stone? Yet I have a feeling Chefchaouen never reveals its secrets, the source of its mysticism is known just to just a few.

As we sip our tea, a carpet trader hangs out his wares for the day. He’s one of just a few traders on a Friday, the Islamic holy day. His shop is a visual treasure trove, a Moroccan mirage of magic carpets woven in the colours of the country’s landscapes. Shades of cinnamon, cumin and turmeric conjure up the sculpted spice stacks of the Souks and Berber patterns are hand-stitched in turquoise silk. Outside the shop, sacks of coloured powder in shades of lavender, bluebell and electric blue betray the origins of the town’s much-photographed walls.

Clad in the thick wool of his hooded djellaba, the carpet trader stares back at us. His dark, wind-burnished face is unreadable. Suddenly, he winks and cracks into a toothy, warm smile.

‘Marhaba.’ The rolling Arabic greeting is soft and sonorous in the morning drizzle.

Under the table, a kitten pounces on its prey. A second later, a waiter arrives with piles of bread, jewel-toned jam and dripping, golden honey. Breakfast is served.